


the only exception

by insomniacjams



Series: strangers on a train [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, PWP, Top!Zayn, Train Sex, bottom!Liam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 03:10:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2134836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insomniacjams/pseuds/insomniacjams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam and Zayn meet in a compartment of an overnight train between Bratislava and Frankfurt.<br/>Liam rides Zayn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the only exception

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am not British, so these characters may not sound very British at all. This story has not been beta read or edited.

He nearly misses the train, stumbling aboard just as the doors slide closed. His backpack is too heavy; he's determined to shed some weight at the next campsite, but he's always been terrible at letting things go. He thinks this whole trip is a prime example of that, chasing a ghost across the continent only to find nothing but old men in black, wilting flowers and a dirty gravestone.

"Is this seat taken?" He asks, fumbling his way into a nearly empty compartment, gesturing at the seat in case the man didn't speak English. The only other occupant, a man no older than Liam though dressed in a neatly pressed suit and tie combination, tilts his head up in acknowledgement, but doesn't speak.

Liam tosses his pack into the overhead luggage storage and hunkers down for the 16 hour journey back to Frankfurt where he'd catch a connecting train to Paris, and then take the Chunnel back to London – back home, he reminds himself.

He's been on the road for so long he forgets he has one sometimes, a dusty bedroom waiting for him in a house he's never called a home, filled with things he never asked for and a family who cared more about good wine and upholding reputation than morals.

To pass the time, he pulls out his journal. He's never been particularly fond of English, or good at it for that matter, but he still tries, jotting down point form notes on the money he spent and the things he did. He pens the date neatly at the top of the page, and he writes:

• train ticket: 52€  
• sandwich: 4€  
• almost missed train to Frankfurt because I missed the bus stop at the train station

He doesn't think his notes are anything spectacular, or worth reading, but he thinks maybe one day in ten, or twenty years, he'll look back at them and remind himself that he was young and dumb once, and he'd left his life behind for a backpack and a week without a shower, sleeping on trains and buses and airport benches before he started for Bratislava to attend the funeral of an old neighbour he'd never been particularly close to anyway.

"Have you got a pen I could borrow?" Liam startles at the voice; it flowed through the compartment smooth as honey, rumbling over the rattling of the windows and the screeching of the train hurtling down the tracks. The British accent is hard to wrap his head around; it's been many days since Liam had heard someone speak proper English.

"Yeah, somewhere," Liam says, standing quickly to dig around his pack for his extra pen. "Here."

"Cheers mate," the guy says, pulling out a sketchbook from his leather shoulder bag, and flipping to a clean page. Liam watches his hands move for a while; he watches the slim fingers curl around his pen and fly across the page – Liam can't see what the guy is drawing from where he's sitting, but he can imagine whatever it is, it dances with spirit that he hasn't seen in weeks. 

When watching a hand glide across paper gets old, Liam starts looking at the guy instead. He's wearing a suit, sure, but he's slouched in his seat, hunched over the notebook like he's used to people watching over his shoulder. His brow is furrowed and his left foot taps impatiently – thump, thump, thump – against the floor of the compartment. 

His eyelashes are thick, Liam notes – his sisters would be envious. His hair stands in a quiff that looks like it'd withstand a hurricane, and his oxfords are scuffed despite his neat appearance – they look like they have withstood a storm, flaked with mud and dirt.

The guy stretches; his sleeve slides up his arm, and Liam catches sight of a tattoo peeking out from under the cuff. He wonders if it's just one on his forearm, or if he's hiding more under that suit. He wonders where the guy is going, wearing a suit like that.

Liam thinks he looks like a frumpy vagabond next to this man, his own hair greasy and hanging limp on his forehead, jeans stained from days of wear without washing, t-shirt smelling of sweat from many nights sleeping in the sun. There's a noticeable hole on the side of his left sneaker too – he can stick a finger in it and poke his little toe. Liam does just that, for the sake of something to do.

He puts his notebook back into his backpack; he eats a granola bar and a banana, and then changes his shirt, because if being on the road has taught him anything, it's that he has no care for modesty. 

"I like your tattoo," the guy says when Liam pulls the collar off his nose and wrenches his arms through the appropriate holes, and he startles again, looking over to the man, still hunched over his sketchbook. He's looking down at his page, tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration. If he wasn't the only other person in the compartment, Liam wouldn't have believed he spoke.

"Thanks," Liam says finally, reaching out to clutch shyly at his forearm. He hadn't been thinking when he'd gotten it years ago, but now, here sitting on a train rolling through the Austrian countryside, he thinks the quote is rather fitting. "Somewhere is a place that nobody knows," he smiles weakly at the stranger, who finally looks up if only to nod.

Desperate for conversation knowing he's stuck with this man for the next ten hours, Liam can't help but ask, "Do you have any tattoos?"

"I do," he says, but doesn't volunteer further information. Fully discouraged, Liam sighs and sinks into his seat, digging through his pockets until he finds his ipod, because if he can't make casual conversation with the first Brit he's seen in what feels like eons, he may as well take a nap. 

It's only after the entire Ed Sheeran discography has played twice that he realizes he can't sleep, no matter how hard he tries. Night settles in and the windows are dark – the guy pulls the curtain down, and the dim overhead lights flicker on. Liam sighs and rubs his eyes, turning off his ipod only seconds before the battery dies.

"What's your name?" The guy across from him asks when he realizes Liam had turned off his music.

"I'm Liam," he introduces himself.

"I'm Zayn," the guy says, and once again, they fall silent, listening to the window shake and the train rumble. Liam bites his tongue, twists his fingers together, and finally breaks the silence after a painful fifteen minutes of counting his breaths.

"Can't sleep either?"

Can't sleep ever," Zayn admits, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "You?"

"Yeah, not so good at it," Liam says. "Eight hours to go for me," he tells Zayn, looking at his watch. "Where are you going?"

"Wiesbaden," Zayn says. "I have to transfer at Frankfurt, so, uh, eight hours for me too."

"We could play a game to pass the time," Liam offers, and Zayn considers this for a moment, turning the idea over in his head – Liam can imagine the gears clicking – and then nods in agreement. 

"Sure," he says, pulling the sketchbook back out of his bag. "As long as you don't mind that I'm still using your pen."

"You can keep it," Liam says without thinking, even though it's a good pen – one of his favourites, even. He'd picked it up at a stationery shop for five quid, which was far more than a guy like Liam with no care for writing ever spent on pens.

"Thanks," Zayn says, with his attention back on his sketchbook. "So what game do you propose we play?"

"Well, let's be honest, there isn't much we can do inside a moving train," Liam admits; he's gotten more creative since leaving London though, hours on the road leading to many new methods of self-amusement. This is the first time he's had real company though. He's been alone for too long, he realizes, when he can't come up with anything.

Zayn looks up at Liam's blank expression and shrugs. "Twenty questions?"

"Yeah, do you have rules?" Liam asks, stretching out along his row of seats so that his head is pillowed on his backpack and his legs are bent at the knees, leaning against the wall of the compartment. Zayn smiles at him.

"Chicken out of a question and you become the other person's bitch for an hour, and anything goes," Zayn blurts, and then like he realizes what he's said, he blushes. "At least, that's how my friends and I played it at university, but, like, with a lot more alcohol."

"I should've brought some," Liam chuckles. "Can I go first?" Zayn nods, so Liam smiles at him widely, eyes skimming his slender body looking for a target. "What tattoos do you have?"

Zayn puts the sketchbook down gently, and stands up to unbutton his jacket. "I have a lot," he says, and unbuttons his shirt as well, revealing his narrow hips and subtly muscled chest. 

Liam doesn't know where to start looking, from the floral design on his left wrist, to the tiger on his upper arm, the full sleeve on his right arm, the gun pointing into his pants, the smoking skull wearing a top hat, the card on his ribs, the bird between his shoulder blades, the Arabic on his chest, to the winged bright red kiss mark on his chest.

But then Liam's eyes zero in on the heart on his hip, and his breath stutters, because of the entire canvas in front of him, all he can see is the solid shape, so ordinary compared to the exceptional artwork decorating his skin, and yet so prominent – Liam wonders if it's dumb to think a strangers' tattoo speaks to him.

"I have more," Zayn interrupts Liam's silent awe, "but I don't take my pants off for strangers." 

Liam smiles as Zayn redresses carefully, lining up the buttons, his nimble fingers making quick work of his shirt and jacket. "My turn," he announces, looking critically at Liam. "What were you doing in Bratislava?"

"I was attending a funeral," Liam says, and it sounds silly when he says it aloud, letting the words echo around the compartment and fade away quietly. "She was my neighbour when I was growing up – she'd gone home years ago, but we kept in touch. My mum and her, they wrote letters, and sometimes mum would put pictures of me in there. Her son invited us to the funeral when she died, and well, I'd just finished uni and I'd been doing a whole lot of nothing, so I made a trip of it."

"Where did you go?" Zayn asks, and Liam wants to tell him that it was his turn – that he couldn't ask two questions in a row, but he doesn't. 

Instead, he says, "I left as soon as I could; bummed around Germany and the Czech Republic for a while. I aimed to be in Bratislava in time for the funeral, and now I have no reason to stay so I'm going back."

"I bet that was an adventure," Zayn offers, and Liam smiles lopsidedly.

"Yeah, I guess it was good for the first time leaving Britain. It's my turn now. Where do you come from?"

"I'm a Bradford boy," Zayn chuckles quietly, blushing like he's embarrassed about being from the north. "My dad is from Pakistan; I'm a Muslim by faith and I grew up speaking Urdu."

"I can't imagine what that's like," Liam marvels, stretching out best he can on the uncomfortable seats, eyeing Zayn. "It must've been cool growing up knowing different languages and different cultures."

"It's pretty shit sometimes," Zayn says, pulling a pack of cigarettes out from his bag. "Do you mind?"

"Go ahead," Liam says. "How's it shit?"

"It's kind of like being stuck between two worlds, y'know? Like, I'm never really going to be a proper Brit, but can't be anything else either, right?"

"I never thought about it like that," Liam admits, and Zayn nods, blowing out a series of smoke rings that makes Liam wonder if Zayn's good with his tongue, since he doesn't know much about blowing smoke rings but he knows there's a bit of tongue involved.

(Honestly, he wouldn't mind getting involved with Zayn and a bit of tongue.)

"Knowing another language is cool though," Zayn says. "Comes in handy, sometimes, I think."

"I'll bet," Liam sighs. "I tried to learn Spanish once, and I'm pretty sure I only passed that class because I was really nice to the teacher."

"At least you tried; that makes you better than a lot of people I know," Zayn says, and Liam nods, eyeing the cigarette longingly. Zayn smirks. "You alright there?"

"I hate to beg, but-"

"My last one, but I can share," Zayn says, patting the seat next to him. "You did give me your pen, after all." Liam reluctantly stands, crossing the compartment in one step, and drops into the seat next to Zayn. 

"Thanks man." He takes a deep drag of the cigarette, letting the smoke fill his lungs. He knows it's a bad habit; he knows he should quit. But then again, Liam knows a lot of things, and knowledge has never stopped him from doing dumb things in the past. And that isn't about to change.

"Whose turn was it?" Zayn laughs, and Liam grins at him, passing the cigarette back.

"Can't remember," he admits. Zayn's fingers graze his, just for a second, and he feels his cheeks flush, warm from the heat of Zayn's body next to his. Then because fate was a cruel mistress, or so some claimed, the train lurched, and Liam found himself toppling, and then plastered to Zayn's side.

"Whoa," Zayn says, the cigarette dropping from between his fingers and onto the floor. Neither of them moves to stamp it out, and smoke wisps upwards curling around their calves; it burns itself out, but neither of them notice, because Liam is there – warm and securely pressed into Zayn like he's lost his centre of gravity.

"Sorry," Liam stutters; his heart jumps into his throat. He feels Zayn tense, and then relax, throwing an arm over Liam's broad shoulders.

"Don't worry about it," Zayn says, dangerously close to his ear, and when Liam tries to right himself again, he can't because he's pressed firmly into Zayn by the arm around his shoulders. Zayn's hand squeezes a bit around Liam's upper arm and his brain short circuits.

The thing is that Zayn isn't even his type. Liam tends to go for guys that look easy; guys that wear tank tops and have muscles to rival his own – this is new, this slender body, this careful hairstyle, this suit and tie – this isn't Liam's thing at all.

But it works.

Whatever it is, it works so well that Liam slumps over, burrowing closer instinctively. It's Zayn. It's the muted scent of his cologne, the devious smirk of his lips, the golden glint in his warm brown eyes, the beginnings of thick scruffy facial hair, and the fingers, slim and precise, wrapped around Liam's bicep like he fucking owns it.

"Sorry," Liam apologizes hastily, and pulls back when he realizes his nose is practically stuffed against Zayn's neck, but Zayn just chuckles, rearranging Liam with surprising ease. Liam ends up on his lap, legs thrown over one of the seats, holding on to Zayn's shoulders for stability as the train continues to jump along the tracks.

"Hi," Zayn says softly, a twinkle in his eye as squeezes Liam's hip.

"H-hi," Liam stutters in return.

"So, I think it was my turn to ask a question," Zayn says, his breath ghosting against Liam's ear as he speaks. Liam shivers in his arms, wriggling closer and seeking out contact. "Have you ever kissed a boy?" Zayn purrs into his ear.

"I've done a lot more than kiss a boy," Liam responds lowly, shifting on Zayn's lap so that Zayn's facing him properly, instead of talking into his ear. He swings his leg around, straddling Zayn best he can on the train seats, and Zayn shifts his hips forward to accommodate Liam's added weight.

They're pressed together; Liam tucks his face into Zayn's neck and plasters himself down the hard line of Zayn's chest, nudging his hips forward until they make contact. He's half hard in his jeans already, just from the way Zayn's hands have crept up his shirt, rubbing at the skin at the small of his back.

"So, Bradford boy," Liam drawls, nipping lightly at Zayn's earlobe, "What were you doing in Bratislava?"

"I was attending a business meeting," Zayn says primly, and then ruins his proper image by rolling his hips up into Liam's, the friction causing them both to groan out. Liam can feel his cock swelling up further; he's not wearing anything under his jeans, all his underwear tangled in a bag of dirty laundry somewhere in his pack. He feels his erection graze the zipper on his jeans, and groans again.

"What kind of business do you do?" Liam chokes out as Zayn steadies him on his lap before reaching for the button on Liam's jeans. Zayn's thumb carefully flicks the button open, and when his swift fingers drag the zipper down, Liam blushes at the way his cock springs free, eager to greet Zayn's waiting touch.

"I do a lot of things," Zayn hums, tugging Liam's pants partway down his arse before holding out his palm. "I mostly deal with financial advising for large corporations though. Lick," he demands, and Liam does as he's told, licking a wet stripe across Zayn's palm so that Zayn can reach down at wrap the hand around Liam's thick, hard cock. "What about you? You mentioned you just finished school – any plans when you get back home?"

"Lay low," Liam sputters, trying (mostly unsuccessfully) to stop his hips from stuttering up in Zayn's grip. Zayn strokes him from base to tip, dipping his fingers down into Liam's jeans to fondle his balls and squeeze the base before giving the shaft a few rhythmic pumps, and then lightly tugging the foreskin back, swiping a finger over the precum collected at the head to ease his way back down. "I might find a desk job for a while."

"Why a desk job?" Zayn asks, using his free hand to dip down in the back of Liam's jeans and grope at his buttocks. 

"I'd probably make a good secretary," Liam admits. "I'm good at- good at, ah, fuck-" he breaks off as Zayn twists his wrist, sending what feels like an electric shock up Liam's spine. "I'm good at organizing shit," he finally finishes his sentence, his whole body quivering on top of Zayn's.

"Do you have any experience?" Zayn asks, removing his hand from the back of Liam's pants to reach for his bag. Liam raises an eyebrow when Zayn withdraws a small bottle of lube and a condom, but Zayn just shrugs. "I like to be prepared."

"Clearly," Liam groans as Zayn coats his fingers in lube and dips his hand back into Liam's pants, sliding the cold, lubed up fingers between his cheeks and pressing gently at his entrance. "I have a bit of experience – I worked for my father's company for a long time before I went to school, and I've taken a lot of office administration related classes-" Liam gasps as Zayn's finger breaches him, just the tip, pressing down until he's knuckle deep inside. 

"I could use a secretary," Zayn says, rubbing his second finger against Liam's hole before pressing in without any further warning. Liam's balanced precariously on his lap, bouncing up and down with every jolt of the train, and unconsciously bearing down on Zayn's fingers. "Are you a fast learner?"

"Can learn," Liam pants. "I can learn to- fuck, Zayn-"

"That's right, you could learn to fuck me," Zayn smirks, sliding a third finger into Liam without hesitation. "If you'd be my secretary, we could start your training a little early."

"Yes, please," Liam whines, and he doesn't realize he'd been reduced to begging until Zayn's fingers crook against his prostate, and the inhuman noise that leaves his lips startles himself and he jerks his head up from Zayn's neck, eyes wide. "Oh, fuck."

"You like that?" Zayn chuckles, pushing his forehead against Liam's until their noses bump. He crooks the fingers again, and Liam flails, grabbing tight onto Zayn's shoulders, his mouth falling open soundlessly. Zayn tilts his head a bit, and Liam instinctively pushes forward.

They meet in an angry, dominating clash of lips, fighting for control over the vicious kiss. Zayn tastes a bit like cigarettes and mint chewing gum, and Liam thinks he probably tastes of stale beer and the coffee he drank earlier. Zayn's lips are a bit chapped, but still soft against Liam's own, and his tongue tangles into Liam's with practiced ease, working its way into Liam's mouth before he realizes he's lost the battle.

Liam comes without warning, with three fingers up his arse, one hand on his cock, and Zayn's warm tongue in his mouth. He comes with an animalistic whimper, ruins his own shirt and Zayn's in one moment, hips thrusting upward into Zayn's loose grip of their own accord. 

Everything goes a bit sideways after that, because Zayn lifts Liam easily off his lap, and there's a mad rush to get their clothes off. Liam's pulling at his shirt and then Zayn's shirt; Zayn's careful fingers from earlier were now rushed and clumsy, fumbling one every button.

"I thought you didn't take your pants off for strangers?" Liam gasps, pulling their hips together and grinding against Zayn's swollen cock, feeling the thick length twitch even through Zayn's pants. 

"I think I can afford to make an exception," Zayn says, and then yanks off his trousers and briefs in one go, falling back onto the train seat naked, dragging an equally naked Liam back into his lap. Liam grabs for the condom and bottle of lube from the seat next to them, and when he finally gets his hands on Zayn, he slicks him up thickly without preamble and positions himself over Zayn's dick, gripping the base to steady it as he sinks down.

"Holy shit," Liam gasps, slowly sliding down Zayn's prick, feeling it split him open – the stretch burns better than anything he'd had in too long, too scared to do much but look while on the road. It's such a good burn it leaves him gasping, trembling against Zayn until Zayn bottoms out, and they both look each other in the eye, sharing deep breaths until Liam nods. "You can move."

He doesn't even realize Zayn's leaning in for a kiss, too focused on the warmth in his arse, until there are tender lips on his, and then Zayn's moving, twisting his hips just a bit. Liam can't help it – can't help the way he moves naturally, jerking his hips up and falling back down again, until Zayn's not moving at all, just letting Liam ride him.

Zayn's hands are pressed into Liam's hip – he likes to think the hard press of fingers will leave a bruise behind, maybe even a heart shaped bruise, though less permanent than the heart on Zayn's hip, they'd match, if only for a little while. Up, and back down. Liam jerks, gasping as he hits his prostate, then keeps hitting it, over and over again, until he's sweating and gasping and grunting and Zayn's hips are jerking up to meet his in sporadic thrusts.

He can tell when Zayn is close because he squeezes his eyes shut and his fingernails start digging into the skin. Liam reaches down between his legs to jerk himself off, and lets Zayn ride out his orgasm without a sound. After Zayn's breathing slowly returns to normal and he winces, pulling out, Liam reaches down between his legs to touch himself.

It doesn't take much; a few quick pulls has him coming hard all over Zayn's chest, streaking the olive, tattooed skin with white. "Looks good on you," Liam whispered in Zayn's ear, and Zayn just groans uselessly in response, obviously at a loss for words.

Once they collect themselves, Zayn borrows a shirt from Liam, and they quietly redress without sharing words. Zayn doesn't say anything when Liam curls up on a seat on the opposite side of the compartment again, and Liam doesn't say anything when Zayn pulls the pen and sketchbook from his bag again.

"Do you always fuck strangers that you meet on the train?" Liam asks self-consciously after what felt like an eternity of silence, knees pulled to his chest as he tries to understand what had just happened.

"No, but this is the first time I've met a stranger that looks like you," Zayn smiles, and reaching into his bag to light up another cigarette.

"I thought you said that one we shared was your last."

"I might've lied to get you to sit next to me," Zayn smirks, and when Liam finally falls asleep, it's to the scent of cigarettes curling around him, and dawn peeking through the curtains, lulled off by the rattling of the train, the scratch of a pen, and Zayn's careful breaths.

He wakes up a bit later to Zayn shaking his shoulder lightly. "We're here," he says, and Liam nods sluggishly, stretching out the sore muscles in his back from sleeping curled up on a seat, and grabbing his backpack. 

They step out onto the platform together as Liam rubs sleep from his eyes and tries to follow the directions to his connecting train leaving in twenty minutes. "I'm going the other way," Zayn says, and Liam frowns, like he doesn't understand that they have to part. "For you," Zayn says, pressing the page from his sketchbook into Liam's hand, and Liam wishes he was more awake, because then he'd never forget the soft kiss Zayn leaves on his cheek before walking away.

It isn't until he's on another train, this one a lot nicer than the previous one, bound for Paris, when he looks at the sketch. It's him – it's obviously him – wide shoulders, big eyes, scruffy chin, and the same clothes Zayn had torn off his body earlier that night. 

It was him, but it wasn't – he looked older than he remembered, perhaps wiser. He looked so warm and inviting, like the type of person a stranger would trust with their baby. He goes to the toilet, splashes a bit of water on his face, and looks at the sketch again.

It is him. 

He doesn't remember the last time he looked in a mirror, but here, in the dingy toilet aboard a train bound for France, he sees the changes. And maybe Zayn is right – maybe he is older and wiser now. Maybe he is warm and inviting. Maybe he's the kind of man that people like Zayn want to touch – to keep.

He looks at the sketch for what feels the billionth time, but this time, he doesn't look at the centerpiece. He looks at the signature in the corner. There's a note there, a few lines, scrawled messily like they were a last minute edition.

"I wasn't joking about needing a secretary," the lines say.

Liam smiles a bit brighter when he notices the line is accompanied by a phone number with a London area code.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading. I'm on tumblr at [chloroformdreams](http://chloroformdreams.tumblr.com/) and twitter [@Munnoaster](http://twitter.com/Munnoaster) if you want to chat about fandom related things or just say hi.


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